We’re all black in dark
In plain boxed-death in the ground,
As worm- vittles or ashes
Can you hear the end coming?
Vellum brown leaves skipping off the tin roof,
Hummoths silently seeking sugar,
A bear sugarfooting close in the woods,
The throb of an unseen freighter’s diesels,
Far north in the big lake
On the Fitzgerald’s course,
At our booted feet,
Small warblers dead of exhaustion,
On chilled agate and fossil beds,
A chainsaw singing somewhere,
The Ojibwe say,
Strumming the reapers’ sharp scythe
Like a one-string banjo,
While vear dogs try bay to tree their quarry.
Will we know when we are up our tree
Looking down, feeling safe,
With no clue the end is at hand?
Vespers au matins?
No diff on the final watch.